


Rescuing Maglor

by amyfortuna



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:48:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4513851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Finrod is reunited with his lover Maglor at the end of the War of Wrath, under rather unpleasant circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Theft of the Silmarils

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IdleLeaves](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IdleLeaves/gifts).



> Thanks very much to Alexcat for beta-ing!

The war was over. The Silmarils, removed from the Iron Crown, had been placed into a small strongbox for return to Valinor, and they were guarded night and day. 

Finrod glanced northward, where the towers of Angband had been broken only days ago. Already there were fires leaping out from under the earth, swallowing the place as they would soon swallow the rest of the land. Everyone was fleeing from the coming disaster, Men, Dwarves, Ents, and Elves rushing into Ossiriand and over the Blue Mountains as fast as possible. 

He had never been over the Blue Mountains. The furthest East he'd been was when he encountered Bëor, so many years ago. He'd heard that somewhere in the remote fastnesses of the vast mountain range, the two remaining sons of Fëanor and their few followers lived with the two boys they had kidnapped in Sirion, the young sons of Eärendil and Elwing. The two, it was rumoured, were the same twins who had showed up unexpectedly at a key point in the conflict, one of them rallying many of the race of Men to their cause, the other joining the healers and working with incredible skill to save lives. 

He had also heard that Maedhros and Maglor intended now to surrender to the Valar, and in turn to beg for the remaining Silmarils in order to fulfil their Oath. Try as he might, he could not quite picture that happening. 

It was a cloudy evening. The air was warm, close and still, like the air before a storm. The stench of smoke and death, the reek of battle, still hung in the air. Finrod turned to his companion on guard duty that night, Tercáno, a young Vanyarin who had never been to Middle-earth before, and who, despite fighting bravely, seemed not to understand the beauty of what was being lost. 

"You're not seeing this land at its best, but I assure you, it was very fair in earlier days," Finrod said with a smile, tugging idly at the hood that covered his hair. "I wandered near here long ago, in lands held by my cousin Maglor. There was good hunting on the plains, and the villages were full of friendly people, before the dragon came, before the Battle of Sudden Flame." 

Tercáno glanced around. The land was barren and dark, the grass withered, the trees few. The sun was setting behind the clouds, turning the grasses red, as if they ran with blood. "It chills me to my bones," he said, frowning. "The sooner we're off this doomed bit of land, the better, I say." 

Finrod raised an eyebrow. "Well, it won't be long. Another week should see us back at the ships." He lapsed into silence, and they both stared out at the landscape as darkness fell completely. 

The strongbox they guarded was set a little apart from the rest of the camp, near the summit of a small rise in the landscape. Finrod thought they were unnecessarily exposed, but did not question Eönwë's order. There were no fires nearby, but the summer night was warm. He sighed, and took his hand off the sheathed sword at his belt, reminding himself not to be on alert constantly, now that Morgoth was captured and so much of his power broken. In all likelihood, no one wanted to steal the Silmarils anyway.

The moon was behind the clouds, but his silver light could still be seen as he rose. Down the hill, the noises of the camp died away as everyone retired to their tents. It was late evening and Tercáno had been walking all day as well as himself; Finrod could see him sway on his feet. 

There was a rustling sound under a nearby tree, as though some wild animal passed. Finrod turned swiftly toward it, but could see nothing save the echo of a movement, branches swaying slightly, as if from a breeze. Next to him, Tercáno was yawning, barely noticing anything. 

The blade at his throat was a surprise. His eyes flickered to Tercáno, who stood stunned, looking far more awake now, with a matching blade at his own throat. A voice, clear although quiet, said, "Do not move or shout. We will not hesitate to kill." 

"Maglor," Finrod whispered, very softly, and then, calmly, so as not to startle Tercáno, "we surrender." 

Maglor's face, under a heavy cowl, moved into view. "Ingoldo," he said, and underneath the wariness, the weariness, and the fear, there was warmth and affection in the way he pronounced Finrod's name. "How are you here? Did Mandos refuse to keep you?" 

Finrod gave him a small smile, trying to set him at ease. "I was rehoused swiftly," he said. "I was only told that I was needed." He paused, glancing toward the blade at Tercáno's throat. "Maedhros, I know you're there. You might as well come out." 

A tall figure, heavily hooded and cloaked, appeared from the other side of the young Vanyarin. "Maglor, now is not the time for a cozy catch-up with your long-lost dalliance," he said, his voice almost a hiss, from a throat that looked as though it had been damaged at some point. 

The eldest scion of the house of Feanor was swaying on his feet, clearly barely able to hold the sword in his hand. Finrod looked him over, trying to determine if he was simply drunk, or if he had encountered some grievous injury since the last time they had seen each other. "You've come for the Silmarils," he said. "Of course you have."

"Yes," Maglor answered simply. 

"You'd become a Kinslayer again for them?" Finrod asked, and gave Tercáno a glance. "If we decided to sell them with our lives?" 

Maglor frowned, and glanced up at Maedhros, who sighed. "The Oath would demand it, yes." 

Finrod raised his chin and looked at Maedhros, firm and calm. "For the sake of this one here, I ask that you allow him to depart in peace, unharmed. With me you may do as you will. Take me as hostage to buy your safe passage, if you must. I won't fight you over gems."

Maedhros laughed, harsh and bitter. "That's a change to your usual philosophy, Ingoldo. I must confess I did not realise it was you standing guard, earlier. I hardly know you without the emeralds and pearls, the glitter of gold in more than your hair." 

Maglor frowned at Maedhros. "Now who's wasting time?" he said icily. "Get the box. I'll take Ingoldo. You," he addressed Tercáno, "go to the camp in silence, and tell Eönwë we're taking the Silmarils and Ingoldo is our hostage. If I hear an outcry or if we are chased, Ingoldo's head will be to pay for it."

Tercáno glanced at Finrod. "As he says," Finrod said, tilting his head toward the camp. Maedhros picked up the strongbox containing the Silmarils, and Maglor took Finrod's sword in its sheath, buckling it onto his belt next to his own. 

Giving Finrod one last questioning glance, Tercáno strode off down the hill, and Maglor frowned, then wrapped his arm around Finrod's waist in a strange parody of a lovers' embrace. "Go," he said to Maedhros, who led them off toward the north, in the opposite direction from the one Tercáno had disappeared in. 

They vanished like shadows in the night, treading over burnt grass and ruined earth in near-total silence. 

\------

"They took the Silmarils, my lord," Tercáno said, "and the Prince as their hostage." Eönwë did not look very surprised, as far as Tercáno could interpret facial expressions on a Maia. 

"So they go to meet their doom," Eönwë said slowly, his deep voice resonating in the darkness. "Their Oath will lead them only to death, in the end, for they have forsworn their right to touch the hallowed jewels."

"They will die?" Tercáno asked. "Is this why there was such a small guard for such precious things? They were meant to take them?" 

"No," Eönwë said, shaking his head. "It was always their choice to take them. I merely wished to avoid further unnecessary bloodshed if they chose do so rather than to surrender. But they have also taken Findaráto. A strange deed."

"My lord, the Prince surrendered willingly," Tercáno said. Eönwë looked thoughtful at this, tilting his head and staring into the distance with the expression of one who hears words spoken from far away. 

"The tapestry is yet unwoven," he said at last. "It may be that though both are fated to meet their end by the very jewels they did so much evil in pursuing, that one may be rescued, even yet. Love may sometimes succeed where nothing else can." He paused, looking down at Tercáno. "Do not worry overmuch for Findaráto. He knows what he must do." 

"This was planned?" Tercáno said, confused. 

"No," Eönwë answered, and would not elaborate further. 

\-------

They headed northwest all night, walking through a light rain over the barren ground. From time to time they passed wide fissures in the ground, some of them deep enough that flames could be seen inside them. The land was cracking apart at the seams, and the further northwest they went, the more it was apparent. 

When the Sun broke through the early morning mists, Finrod looked around to see if he could place where they were, but could only figure it must be somewhere in the wide plain that was once known as Ard-Galen, but was now called Anfauglith, the Gasping Dust. In the distance he could see a green hill, and beyond that, very faint and far, but impossible, what looked to be the Sea. 

"It cannot be," he said, shading his eyes to try to see better. Maedhros looked up from the box he had carried all night, possessively, and Maglor sighed. 

"These lands are dying and the Sea rushes to claim them," Maglor said, and turned to Maedhros. "We cannot go further north. There is a long fissure, very deep, running along our way. Where are you taking us, brother?"

"I do not wish to go any further North," Maedhros said. "That hill." He pointed off toward the distance. "I have often heard of it, but now I see it with my own eyes, my faults and failures made manifest."

"Nelyo," Maglor said, a warning note in his voice. "We should turn, go elsewhere. Over the mountains in the East we could live in peace and safety, spared all these reminders of our losses, with the Silmarils that are left to us, to heal our hurts and satisfy our Oath."

"The Silmarils," Maedhros breathed, setting the box down at last. "I would see what we have finally won." 

"Beware, cousin," Finrod began, holding out his hand as if to stop Maedhros. Maedhros frowned. 

"Stay out of it, Findaráto," he said, and, taking his dagger, broke the lock with one firm blow. 

Maglor took one step toward him and the box, and as Maedhros raised the lid, took another step to stand by his side. The radiance of the Silmarils shone forth, blinding, bright, and Maedhros all but recoiled backward from it. Maglor closed his eyes and turned his face away. 

Finrod, a few steps away, felt the warm glow of them spread over him and raised his head, eyes shining. That light, long-loved, long-missed, the light of the Trees, gave him strength. He stepped forward, looking from Maglor to Maedhros, neither of whom had moved to take the Jewels. 

"They are yours," he said. "Will you not take them?" 

Maedhros was the first to reach out, taking one of the Silmarils in his hand. For a moment, he smiled, looking again like the young Maitimo he had once been, beloved of all, beautiful and strong. Then pain crossed his face and he let out a low moan of agony. 

"It hurts to hold," he said to Maglor. "Brother, it hurts." And yet he did not let go, kept holding on to the Jewel with all his strength. 

Maglor cast an agonised glance at Finrod and put out his own hand, reaching to take the other Silmaril. Even as he picked it up Maedhros turned suddenly, and without a word began to run toward the west, toward that green hill in the distance. 

Finrod watched as Maglor's face was suffused by pain and then moved forward, taking his other hand. "Let go of it," he said. 

"I deserve the pain," Maglor said, but buried his head against Finrod's shoulder, breathing hard. 

"Let it go," Finrod said, "or we will not be able to follow Maedhros." Maglor looked up, over Finrod's shoulder at Maedhros' running figure. Eyes fixed on his brother, he placed the Silmaril into Finrod's free hand. 

"Keep it for me," he said. "I trust you suffer no hurt from it." 

The Silmaril in Finrod's hand was warm and pleasant to hold, brightness seeping through his fingers. "No hurt," Finrod said, and they both turned, following Maedhros as swiftly as possible. Finrod carefully placed the Silmaril into a inside pocket of his jerkin, hiding its light from view. 

Even in his weakening state, Maedhros was still fleet of foot; Finrod and Maglor had much ado to keep up with him as they ran across the barren plain, full of ash and smoke from the fissures all around them. It was as though the entire plain was a volcano waiting to erupt, seeping out and boiling over, breaking the surface of the land with hot bubbling lava in various places. 

The Hill of the Slain was green and fair, here and there a weapon or piece of rusted armour betraying its origins. Grass grew all over it, tall and bright, like a memory of fair Ard-Galen, long ago before dragons and fire, before tears unnumbered. Maedhros scrambled up its steep sides, the Silmaril still in his hand. Hot smoke arose from a deep fissure just to the north of the Hill. The sun shone pallid and weak through the clouds and smoke, and the Silmaril's light, even through Maedhros' hand, was brighter. 

"Wait!" Maglor called as they climbed up after him. "Maedhros, wait!" 

At the summit of the hill Maedhros turned. "They gave him no grave but this, no memorial but dust," he said, and neither Finrod nor Maglor needed to ask of whom he spoke. "All, all is dust and ash, and it is fitting that I too should end here, with all this ruin." He held up his hand with the Silmaril in it, and they could see that it was burning through the flesh of him, ruining his left hand, running fire up his arm. 

"Maedhros, no!" Finrod cried out. "Cousin, no! Just let it go. You are not beyond healing." They were nearly at the summit now and Maedhros backed away, toward the north side of the hilltop. 

"I am beyond it," he said, and his voice was almost clear, almost calm. "There is no veil between me and the fire in my hand, the fire in my heart. All else fades. I cannot let go." Flames licked up into his hair, surrounding him with a halo of flame, turning bright red locks black. He stood framed at the top of the hill, and looked at Maglor. For a moment he looked as though he wished to say more, but then shook his head, and stepped deliberately over the edge of the cliff. 

Maglor let out a wordless cry of despair as he disappeared from view, and ran toward the edge of the hill, which dropped away sheer into flames and lava. 

The Silmaril at his breast, held tightly in a hand that was little more than bone and sinew by that point, Maedhros fell backward into the fissure running through the earth below. Flames licked upward, seizing him even as he fell, and he was gone. The earth trembled, the ground beneath them shook, and Finrod was just in time to grab Maglor, holding him back from falling over the edge of the cliff as well. 

Maglor was staring, half-frozen in shock and fear, as Finrod pulled him away. The unsteady ground shook again, nearly sending them both to their knees. More of the hill was swallowed up by the fissure. 

"We need to go," Finrod said, and without a word Maglor followed him down the hill, and away from that place.


	2. The Wolves of Sauron

Finrod guided Maglor southward; he was stumbling blindly with grief, hardly looking at where he placed his feet. 

After what seemed like hours of walking, they were finally out of the desert that was rapidly becoming a plain of lava. Looking back, Finrod could see no trace of the Hill of the Slain and wondered if it had indeed been fully swallowed by the ground, if the armies that fought in the Battle of Unnumbered Tears had at last been wholly destroyed along with their ill-fated commander. 

They had been climbing up into the region that was once Dorthonion for some time now, where there were pine trees yet, and lakes unclouded by ash and gloom. Finrod was conscious of a great weariness that threatened to overcome him, and it was the Silmaril at his breast that kept him going despite it. But Maglor did not have the same strength and was burdened by overwhelming grief. At last, near the shore of a lake, bright blue in the afternoon sun, Maglor sank down in the shade of a tree, and Finrod let him go, sitting down on the ground next to him. 

Maglor held out his hand, and it was burnt, reddened and angry even from the little time he had held the Silmaril. Finrod said nothing, but took it into his own two hands, kissing the tips of his fingers. Maglor sighed and wrapped his other arm around Finrod, laying his head down on Finrod's shoulder. 

"You were never just a dalliance," he said at last. 

Finrod pressed his lips against the top of Maglor's head. "I know." He returned his attention to Maglor's hand, looking carefully at the white charred edges of the burn. "This should be cleaned, or it will not heal well." 

Maglor caught his breath. "I deserve - " he began, but Finrod put a finger to his lips. 

"Everyone deserves healing," Finrod said. Carefully, he moved out of Maglor's grasp, and stood up, looking around to see if any helpful plants grew nearby. "Athelas grows in these hills, and no other herb will prove more useful for you now." He detached his cloak, and laid it down across the exposed roots of the tree they were under. 

Maglor raised himself to his feet, careful not to jar his hand. He was carrying a bag containing a small harp and another with various supplies, and carefully placed both on the ground, then unbuckled the two swords he was wearing from his belt and laid them down as well. Several knives followed from various places in his clothing, and at last he removed both his cloak and armoured jerkin, which were very warm under the hot sun. 

Finrod, having been deprived of his sword, only had the small pouch which nearly all Elves carried, containing the gift of lembas his mother had given him at their parting. He laid it down next to Maglor's things and disappeared momentarily into the underbrush, reaching for a small plant growing in amongst the bushes, plucking several of the leaves. 

Venturing down to the shore of the lake, Maglor knelt on a large rock and put his hand into the water. He let out a relieved gasp as it immediately took some of the pain away. 

Finrod approached and knelt down beside him, crushing the athelas leaves in his hand, and adding a little water to the crushed leaves to make a paste. The smell of it was instantly refreshing to them both; Maglor raised his head, light coming back into his eyes, and Finrod breathed in deeply. He pressed his hand against Maglor's, smearing the green paste over the burn, and Maglor took a long, shuddering breath. 

"You should sleep now," Finrod said. "I think we should be safe enough if we both sleep for a little while, as long as we keep watch at night. Let yourself heal a little, in body at least." He kissed Maglor's forehead, and Maglor nodded. They both rose and made their way back to the shade of the tree. The grass underneath was green and soft. 

Finrod removed his jerkin with the Silmaril still in the pocket, and lay down behind Maglor, tucking the cloth safely under one of the exposed roots of the tree behind him, underneath the cloak which lay across them. Birds sang softly in the trees about them, and the water of the lake, lapping gently against the shore a short distance away, soothed them into sleep. 

\-----

Finrod awoke in twilight. The waters of the lake were red with the setting sun. Maglor still slept, and he carefully inspected his hand, flung out beside him. There was a silver scar on the palm but otherwise the wound was healing without trouble and soon the hand would be as good as new. 

He checked to be sure the Silmaril was still hidden, and then rose, looking into Maglor's bags to see what supplies they had. There was very little food, but that was not much to worry about: they could easily survive off the land, or at need, share Finrod's supply of lembas. The bag contained some cooking gear, a few more knives in their sheaths, a light blanket, a comb, and soap. Finrod seized on these last two with a grateful smile and pulled them out, laying them aside. 

Gently touching Maglor's shoulder, he roused him from sleep; Maglor blinked and looked about wearily, clearly confused about where he was and why for a moment. When the memory returned, he bowed his head, making a small sound like a sob, and Finrod placed his hand on Maglor's head, combing through the dark tangled hair with his fingers. 

"While we have light, we should wash and eat," he said, and Maglor pulled himself up to a sitting position, checking his injured hand himself. 

"Yes," he murmured, but there was little spirit in it. Finrod bent to pull his boots off, and Maglor removed his tunic, laying it down on the grass. Between them, they stripped away all clothing, and moved into the water, Finrod grabbing the soap and comb along the way. 

Waist-deep in the cool water of the lake, Finrod began combing Maglor's hair out, untangling the braids, removing caught leaves and twigs. His own hair, although after two days of wandering sleepless through lands of ash and dust it did not feel fresh or clean, was in a much better state than Maglor's, who looked as though he hadn't washed it properly in weeks. 

Hair untangled, Maglor sank down full length into the water, drifting, his hair spreading out all around him, eyes closed. Finrod, quickly combing through his own hair, took a moment to watch what he had so rarely seen before - Maglor bare before him, head back, even in the midst of sorrow a certain kind of peace stealing over him. 

Their love had always been one of snatched moments in time, a few days or weeks spent together when and how they could. Separate responsibilities and loyalties kept them apart, but no matter how long they were away from each other, a spark always seemed to rekindle between them once they were back in each other's company. 

So it was now; Finrod felt himself responding to Maglor, needing him, wanting him. Laying the comb aside on the nearby rock, he waded further out to where Maglor drifted in deeper waters now. 

Maglor turned in the water as he approached, sliding into his arms without hesitation, eyes still closed. Their lips met even as their bodies did, warm and languorous, slow and careful. Finrod placed one arm firmly around Maglor's waist, and the other hand he slipped between their bodies to caress them both. 

Head falling back at the touch, Maglor cried out, and the rocky hills all around them echoed the sound, ceaselessly beautiful. Finrod kissed his throat, feeling the vibration of his voice, and quickened his touches, too impatient to wait, to draw it out. 

It was only a moment before Maglor was gasping with release in his arms, and Finrod followed him over the brink at almost the same time, burying his face in Maglor's shoulder, golden hair covering them both. They sank back into the water, arms around each other, and simply drifted, holding onto one another, forgetful of everything save their reunion. 

The dying light roused Finrod at last; he opened his eyes to find that the sun was gone and the light would soon be gone with it. Maglor's eyes were closed as he rested his head on Finrod's shoulder. He was drowsing in the half-light, still weary. 

Even as Finrod looked up to see how long the light would last, he heard a sound that chilled his blood and woke Maglor instantly: the long-drawn out howl of a wolf in the distance. Maglor removed himself from his arms and immediately they swam for shore, rushing to get their clothes back on and be ready to defend themselves. 

Wolves howled in answer; there were several of them at least. Finrod listened carefully but could hear no Orc-voices. The wolves of Sauron were dangerous by themselves but in the company of Orcs far worse, and there appeared to be at least five of them, perhaps more, approaching the lake. 

Finrod, dressed, turned to help Maglor, who was struggling with his own clothing, his right hand still not fully healed yet. "Can you play?" Finrod asked, reaching for the bag with Maglor's small harp in it. Maglor flexed his fingers. 

"I think so," he said. "I will play with my left hand, I can do that well enough." Music was one thing wolves hated and it would either drive them away, or make them distracted and annoyed, and so easier to kill. 

"Get into the tree, then," Finrod said, taking their supplies and pushing them into the space left by the exposed tree roots. He had put his jerkin with the Silmaril back on, of course, and it now rested against his heart, giving him strength. Maglor climbed into the tree quickly, and Finrod handed up his harp and his sword, grabbing his own as well, just as the first of the wolves came into view. 

Maglor struck a series of long, clear notes, giving the wolf pause. Finrod stood before it, sword up, waiting. The wolf growled harshly, and without further ado, leaped for Finrod, who dodged and then struck for the wolf's side, bringing it down hard. It was not a fatal injury, however, and the wolf, maddened by pain, rushed at him before he could fully dislodge the sword from its body. 

A memory of how he had done this before seized him, and he grabbed the wolf's throat as it plunged downward upon him, whipping his sword from the wolf's body with the other hand. His hand squeezing, he brought the full force of a blow from his sword to bear in the wolf's breast, and it fell limp, dropping lifeless from his hands onto the bloodstained ground below. 

The next wolf was upon them before Finrod recovered his sword; he grabbed one of the knives off the ground behind him and threw it with perfect aim at the approaching wolf, striking it dead centre in the forehead. Its eyes went blank and it crumpled to the ground, instantly dead. Finrod, breathing hard, took a moment to count the knives remaining - three - and to yank his sword out of the dead wolf. 

Maglor played on, adding his voice to the harp, and for a few minutes, no other wolves came, though they could hearing them howling in the distance. 

When they came, it was four of them at once, and Maglor raised his voice, setting the hills echoing with his song. Two of the wolves hesitated but two did not and approached. Finrod threw another knife but that wolf dodged and the metal clattered uselessly to the ground. 

Rushing forward, Finrod leaped onto the back of the wolf who had dodged his knife. His sword was quick to plunge through the beast's neck, severing its spine. As it fell, he jumped toward the other wolf, who had raced to the bottom of Maglor's tree and was sniffing around it, trying to see if he could reach Maglor. The wolf turned to face him, but it was already too late; Finrod's sword was sweeping down, cutting the head from the shoulders swiftly. 

Two wolves remained, and in one motion, Finrod scooped up the two knives left on the ground and threw them in a burst of dizzying speed. Both struck their targets: one buried itself in the eye of one of the wolves, the other struck the other wolf in the belly. The one with the belly wound collapsed, howling dismally, but the blinded one rushed onward. 

Using Maglor's tree to brace himself, Finrod reached for a branch and swung onto the back of the wolf, bringing it to the ground. For a moment they struggled together, both sets of teeth snapping, and Finrod could not hang onto his sword. Maglor stopped playing, breathless, then noticed that the other wolf was crawling toward them. Fumbling for his own dagger, he snatched it from his belt and threw it hard, striking the wolf with the belly wound between the eyes. It fell and did not move again. 

The wolf, overturned, aimed for Finrod's neck but only managed to reach his hair, biting at it roughly, causing Finrod to cry out as his hair was yanked from his head. He was astride the wolf now, pressing down on the wolf's throat with his hands, and the wolf struggled, paws raking down Finrod's arms and chest, powerful back legs striking at his back, endeavouring to dislodge him. There was a fierceness on his face that Maglor had never seen before. 

Maglor was leaping down from the tree to help when the wolf went limp at last. He grabbed one of the knives out of the body of a wolf and handed it to Finrod. "Here, Ingoldo," he said calmly. Finrod looked up with a grateful look on his face, and slit the wolf's throat. 

There were no more howls now, and Finrod hastened to get up and out of the bloody mess the grass had become. "We can't stay here," he said, and Maglor nodded. Finrod winced as he pulled away chunks of golden hair, his scalp bleeding. "I could shave my head like some of the Edain do," he murmured thoughtfully, looking down at the wolf who lay dead, golden hair still in his teeth. 

"Go and wash," Maglor said, gathering up their things. Finrod shot him a half-smile and obeyed. 

After a moment, Maglor joined him, kneeling on the large rock and cleaning off their various knives, daggers, and swords. "How's the bleeding?" 

Finrod felt his scalp. "Already stopping," he said. "Which way do you wish to go from here?" 

Maglor raised an eyebrow. "I'd forgotten you were meant to be my hostage," he said. 

Shrugging, Finrod continued washing the blood out of his clothes. "I'm whatever you need of me at this point, Makalaure, just as I always have been." He glanced up at Maglor, a tender look in his eyes, and Maglor smiled faintly back. 

"I want to go to Himring," Maglor said after a moment. "It was captured many years ago, but I think it's probably abandoned now. There we can rest in safety for a little while and I can decide what to do."

"About the Silmaril, you mean?" Finrod asked, climbing onto the rock next to him. It was fully dark now and the moon was rising, but unlike the previous night, it was clear overhead, and the stars shone in the dark blue of the sky. Maglor's hand brushed against his own, and Finrod picked it up, carefully looking at it. "Another treatment of athelas, I think, for this, and you'll be fine."

"Athelas for your scalp as well," Maglor said, leaning his head against Finrod's shoulder. They sat for a moment, then Finrod pushed himself to his feet, bringing Maglor along with him. 

"Well, if we're going to Himring, we need to go due east and a little south from here," he said.


	3. The Drowning of Beleriand

Himring was deserted; they climbed over rubble and the broken remains of the gates, and ascended the hill to the keep in utter silence. Even the birds were no longer singing in the trees below, and for some time Finrod had been hearing the sound of the Sea echoing behind them, ever since they had come down from the hills of Dorthonion. 

The place was a mess, as would be expected from a castle captured and squatted in by Orcs for a couple dozen years and then abandoned to the elements entirely. Maglor moved quickly through the halls, never glancing twice at any torn hanging or piece of broken furniture, until he reached a set of securely fastened doors made from forged steel. The doors had clearly been battered over the years but were stubbornly shut. 

"Only the key will open this," he said, and pulled a small bag with several keys in it from the bag he carried. "Only we carry these keys. They are safe rooms which cannot be destroyed unless the castle itself is brought down entirely." He sighed. "That is what happened to my keep; it was burnt to the ground. But Amon Ereb remains standing, and Himring remains, so there is a place of safety for us." He flung open the door. 

Inside there was a smell of stone dust, as if the room had not felt fresh air for years. But it was dry inside, and there were cedar chests full of blankets and clothes, there was a large bed, and the place was in relatively decent order. 

They settled into a routine for a few days, resting and eating the food they had gathered or hunted along the way, saving Finrod's lembas as much as possible. Maglor's hand was fully healed after three days of complete rest, with only the silver scar on the palm remaining. 

The land was changing all around them. Birds and beasts were fleeing eastward over the mountains, passing by swiftly. Faint noises of what sounded like thunder resounded throughout the land. 

One night the noises were louder than ever. They stood together on a balcony, high above the land below, and watched as the waters rolled in, sweeping down the pass, sweeping up the side of the mountain. 

"The Sea comes to us," Maglor said. "Will it take us, cover us over, do you think?"

Finrod reached out for Maglor's hand and held it close. "I do not know," he said. 

Maglor had made no decision about the Silmaril, and indeed whenever Finrod asked, he had changed the subject, but now he turned to Finrod. "I know what I want to do," he said, and glanced meaningfully at the swirling waters below. "I want it to disappear. I don't want to be tempted by it." He turned to Finrod, embracing him. "Take it and throw it into the Sea, so that I can never find it again, so that I will not end up like Maedhros."

Finrod kissed his forehead gently. "I will." Letting go of Maglor, he reached into the inner pocket where he had kept it and drew it out. Maglor turned his face away, blinded by the light from it, and Finrod glanced at it, then at the pained, longing expression on Maglor's face, at his hand that even then reached up to take it. 

And Finrod threw the Silmaril. Far over the walls it flew, into darkness, over deep waters, falling, falling like a star in the black. The night swallowed it up, swirling it over, and it was gone. 

"This time it will not rise," Maglor murmured under his breath, and Finrod turned back to him, taking him in his arms, kissing him. 

\----

One late night near dawn, Finrod awoke to find Maglor gone. Quickly he dressed and ventured into the ruins of the keep, having an idea where Maglor might have disappeared to. 

The Great Hall of Himring was a ruin as much as anything else, but the roof had mainly been preserved over it, and the hangings inside the hall, though torn and vandalised, were not rotten or destroyed. Finrod, wandering through a few days ago, had seen that one hanging, showing the seven brothers gathered around their father and mother, had remained nearly inviolate aside from some Orcish graffiti painted on it. It was to this hanging that he made his way now. 

Maglor stood before it, holding a torch in his hand, shining the flickering light on Maedhros' face, as beautiful there as it once had been long ago, before scars and suffering. Tears flowed from his eyes, but he did not sob or cry aloud in his grief, just stood in silence. Finrod came to stand by him, laying a hand on his shoulder, and Maglor turned to him, dashing the torch to the ground, throwing the hall into darkness, and blotting out the faces of his family from sight. 

Finrod wrapped his arms around Maglor and they stood together in the dark for a long time, until the dawn began to illuminate the ruin once more. Then Finrod led Maglor back to bed, and kissed him carefully, softly. 

Maglor responded almost desperately, tears all burnt away, kissing Finrod hard, pressing him down into the bed. Finrod arched up against him, warm and inviting, sliding his hands into Maglor's hair, tugging him down. 

"Ah, Ingoldo," Maglor breathed between kisses, "I am glad that you are with me, here, at the end."

Finrod moved his hands to Maglor's back, pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "This may be the end of Beleriand, but it is not the end, not for you, and not for me." 

\-----

Their dwindling stock of food drove them from Himring a few weeks later; together they built a boat and sailed it eastward, to the shores of what had once been Ossiriand and was now Lindon. 

The Host of the Valar had long departed and the swan-ships were gone from the harbours. At last they made their way around the coast into the Gulf of Lune, and sailed up to the encampment of Mithlond. 

"I will not go into the camp," Maglor said at last, decisively, after spending the better part of a few hours delaying Finrod by every other means possible. "And you need to go home. Our paths no longer lie together."

Finrod kissed him, slow and sweet, for a long moment. "I would stay with you here in this new land," he said. "If you ask. Please ask."

"I cannot ask." Maglor frowned, looking out along the coastline. "I will not live among people again, after what I have done. I would have wandered off long ago, to explore the wilds, had it not been for Maedhros, and for little Elrond and Elros, who needed me. I would not inflict that life on you."

"Then come with me," Finrod said. "Come home yourself. There are places in Valinor where you may dwell apart from all, and yet we may see each other from time to time."

"I would not be welcomed on those shores," Maglor said. "As the Silmaril burned me, would not the sands of Alqualonde scorch me, would not the very deck of the ship that bore me throw me off?" 

"I do not believe so," Finrod said, but sighed. "In truth I do not know." He wrapped an arm around Maglor and they sat together for a long time, until the West was ablaze with a fiery sunset. 

"Go," Maglor said at last. "I set you free, for now and all time, my love. Go." 

Finrod rose to his feet, gathering the last of his clothes and his sword. He looked at Maglor for a long moment, silhouetted against the sunset, staring out into the West with an unendurable longing. 

"One day," Finrod said, breathing deeply, "I will return for you." He turned and walked away toward the encampment further down the shore, and as he went, he could hear music, faint and fair, and Maglor's voice, raised in a lament for drowned Beleriand.


End file.
